Variations On A Theme
by nyssa123
Summary: A series of Charles/Erik drabbles based on a set of themes. Theme #20: Alone.
1. Love

#1: Love

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: None

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><p>Erik has spent years without even the notion of romantic love; the last real feelings of fondness and devotion he had for anyone dying with his mother. Love, for Erik, is something that drunken girls (or less often boys) slur out as they scratch their nails down your back, something to pretend you didn't hear. His concept of romance involves picking the other person's clothes off the carpet before you sneak out the door.<p>

Charles, in contrast, has what he knows is a rather fairy-tale vision of love. True love- the kind where the handsome prince stabs a dragon a few times and then crowns the princess queen- is not exactly a realistic idea, but years of reading stolen storybooks under the covers has left him with lasting expectations. Charles is the sort of man who stays the night, cooks you breakfast in the morning, and then slips off silently before anyone realizes what's going on.

Erik bites and Charles kisses, Erik thrusts and Charles rises up to meet him. They compromise, in their ideas and in their bed, and neither of them is quite prepared to call what they have anything other than "an arrangement". Charles is still waiting for his prince and Erik is still a staunch non-believer in romance.

So it's a little startling when Charles sits across from Erik, moving his chess pieces around the board, and realizes that his prince is already there. Erik has a similar moment a few days later, lying with his arms around Charles stomach and his lips pressed against the back of his neck; when his heart suddenly feels very, very full and his chest begins to ache in a not-completely-unpleasant way.

Sometimes, they realize, love isn't what you think it will be.


	2. Lust

#2: Lust

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Sex in this one, you guys. You're welcome.

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><p><strong>I want you to fuck me.<strong>

Erik stifles a sharp inhale (not a gasp, that implies surprise) and swivels his head to look at Charles. The telepath is bent over his books, seemingly entranced in the scientific data that Hank had loaded him with earlier in the day. He looks so deep in concentration that for a moment Erik thinks that his head may be playing tricks on him.

But then Charles glances up for a second and grins as their gazes meet before ducking back to his reading. A master of subtlety, the young professor is not. Erik can't decide whether or not he's seething that Charles would pull a stunt like this while they're in the same room as the rest of the students.

Raven glances up at him from where she's sitting cross-legged on the floor, curled up with her magazine. She quirks an eyebrow and smiles conspiratorially as Erik shakes his head, frowning at her. She's far too observant for her own good.

Charles has been silent since his unexpected intrusion into Erik's head, but the damage has already been done. He's started _thinking_ now and his mind is flooding with fragments of images and words, filthy imaginings threatening to overflow without an off switch. He bites the inside of his cheek and tries to tamp down on his thoughts-

**-Charles' lips, glossy and red, stretched wide around Erik's cock as he bobs up and down, dark hair falling into his eyes-**

**-His teeth digging into the soft flesh of Erik's shoulder as Erik curls his fingers sharply inside him-**

**-Jerking as he comes all over his stomach, the look in his eyes as Erik licks it from his skin with a rough tongue, fingers kneading his inner thighs-**

Erik hears a choked cough from behind him and looks up to see Charles blushing behind his desk. Their gazes meet and Charles rolls his blue eyes, his adopted frustration doing a poor job of disguising his arousal.

**My room, five minutes. Don't let Raven see us leave together, or we'll never hear the end of it.**

Erik smirks and revels in the knowledge that he has beaten Charles at his own game.

(If he's truthful, though, they've both won).


	3. Passion

#3: Passion

Rating: PG

Notes: I've written this vignette in the first person, from Charles' perspective. Just to clarify and avoid confusion, I'm telling you this now.

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><p>I don't pretend that I can't understand Erik's motivations. I've been in his head. I've read his thoughts. I've seen his past. I know very few people who have experienced the worst of humanity like he has. That doesn't mean I agree with him, of course, but I can empathize.<p>

I would never take away all the pain he's been through, though some people might say that's the humane thing to do. I could easily wipe his mind of all the horror, every moment of trauma and suffering blurred out like chalk under a wet cloth. But doing so would change who he is, and I could never do that.

Erik's life is what has made him the way he is. All the torments he's had to live through have made him stronger, shaping his personality and his beliefs. And that same drive that made him follow Shaw over God knows how many continents and kill more people than I'd like to admit is also the one thing that makes him so loyal, so dedicated and determined. Sometimes I don't think he's even a man anymore- he's a force of nature.

It's that passion that makes me want him so much. That purpose, that resolve is what separates him from every other person I've ever met. And even if removing the years of pain and suffering from his mind would make the world a safer place, would make him happier, it would also mean that he wouldn't be the same man anymore.

And I don't want to live in a world where Erik Lensherr doesn't exist.


	4. Rage

#4: Rage

Rating: PG

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><p><em>Somewhere between rage and serenity. <em>The memory Charles finds fits that description perfectly. Buried under years of piled-on hatred and lust for revenge, most of Erik's happier memories have been nearly forgotten. Aside from appearances in his dreams every few months (and even then they swiftly turn into nightmares), he's managed to suppress the thoughts of those times when his family was still together- when his mother was alive and his father had a job and Erik was young and free with no idea of his future.

He's consciously forged himself from a man into a machine. Mere men don't get things done, Schmidt told him numerous times. To be superior one must be more than human. So that's what he's done- pushed his body to physical extremes, challenged his mind until his head has split from migraines, traveled to Hell and back. He's tracked and followed and hunted every last step of the trail, from the lowliest camp guards to the _Gestapo_ in their South-Sea hideaways. He has tasted blood and heard screams for mercy. He has killed husbands, fathers, sons.

He has never killed mothers. Women, yes, but never mothers.

The memory that Charles pulls from the dark recesses of his brain, of Erik and his mother and the candles burning warm in the darkness of a basement, is at the same time painful and soothing. It's like putting balm on a burn: the touch of fingers against red, sensitive skin makes your nerve endings sing with pain, but the cool gel of the ointment overlays the sting with comfort. It stirs up contradicting feelings in Erik. He is in between happiness and anger, suffering and relief, rage and serenity.

Charles has outdone himself.


	5. Depression

#5: Depression

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, self-harm, and attempted suicide.

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><p>The Dutch botanistgeneticist Hugo de Vries coined the phrase "Mutation" in the late nineteenth century, while studying crossbreeding in flower specimens. The word came from the Latin "mutare", to change, to become different.

Charles has been becoming different, lately. He's eight years old, and he's starting to hear things, things that no one says out loud. When the doctor examined him, after he had complained about voices when there were none to be heard, he diagnosed the boy with an overactive imagination. Charles is young and naïve, and when his teacher slaps him for asking why she spent the night at the principal's house he doesn't understand what he's done wrong. He feels horribly guilty, but as the day goes on he realizes that it isn't him who's feeling it.

His stepbrother thinks he's a freak, but that's nothing new. His stepfather beats him when he mentions the voices so he tries not to mention them, but sometimes it's very hard for him to tell the difference between someone who is actually speaking and someone who is, Charles finally figures out, thinking.

It's his mother that really makes it hard. She's been getting increasingly quiet since she re-married, and at the long breakfast table Charles can see that she has the same bruises as him. But that's not the worst part.

The worst part is being able to hear her thoughts. It's lying in bed as her silent screams of _**Nonono!**_ pierce his mind. It's the self-loathing that radiates off her when she stands in the drawing room and drinks, thinking that she's alone in the house. It's when she sits on the lawn, her brain addled by pills and liquor, watching Charles play and thinking how she wishes she were dead.

Charles falls out of his seat at school one day when he's nine, choking and doubled over in pain. He grabs at his wrists so tightly that they bruise black and yellow, and the school nurse can't get him to stop screaming for his mother until an hour later. He's lying curled up in the infirmary, body wracked with sobs, when they get the call that Mrs. Marko (the former Mrs. Xavier) is in the hospital.

She's pale and thin and her bony wrists are shackled in gauze when Charles gets to visit her three days later. She smiles at the small bundle of flowers he gives her and kisses his forehead, but he can hear what she's saying inside her head louder than the words she croaks out loud, her voice raw and quiet from the stomach pumping.

_**Why. Why. Why. Why.**_

Charles' mother goes to live in an institution, and he doesn't see her again until her funeral.


	6. Bond

#6: Bond

Rating: PG

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><p>The kitchen is a complete mess. There's flour on the curtains, the ceiling is going to be stained forever with melted chocolate, and there's a distinct possibility that none of them will ever be able to look at frosting again without having post-traumatic stress disorder related flashbacks.<p>

Hank tries to wrestle the electric eggbeater to the ground as Sean frantically sprays the flaming stove with a fire extinguisher. Alex has smudges of food coloring on his face and Raven is picking multi-colored sprinkles up from where they've fallen off the counter, coating the floor. The air is filled with smoke and the scent of burning.

Erik and Charles are frozen in the doorway, staring at the scene of utter chaos in front of them. Raven glances up from the candy-covered linoleum and grins sheepishly.

"Uh… hey. Happy birthday, Erik." She glances around the room at the others. "You guys might want to take a walk or something. Come back in a few hours, 'kay? We've got this under control."

"Totally under control." Sean gives them a thumbs-up and then curses as the fire flares up again, unleashing a jet of pressurized chemicals from the extinguisher. Charles and Erik retreat as quickly as possible, but they only manage to keep straight faces until they're out in the hallway.

"Should we call the fire department?" Charles gasps out between bursts of laughter, doubled over and holding his stomach. "Just to be safe?"

"I think we'd better." Erik grins, one of his rare genuine smiles. They start off down the hallway together, leaning on each other heavily and shaking with mirth.

Charles giggles. "Well, at least they're bonding."


	7. Loss

#7: Loss

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Discussions of spinal cord injuries, light swearing, and a special guest appearance by another Marvel character! Kudos if you get the in-joke.

Notes: I had a lot of fun writing this one. I got to use a little bit of my outside knowledge about SCIs, I got to make a bunch of references to another one of my favorite comics... I really enjoyed writing this one. Consequently, it's the longest vignette yet in this story XD Hope I don't bore you guys!

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><p>"Would you like a cup of tea, Professor Xavier? I always find that tea has the effect of making a bad situation seem at least bearable."<p>

"Yes, thank you." Charles watches as the doctor buzzes his secretary, ordering drinks in sharp, clipped tones. He smiles back at Charles, his demeanor much more friendly to a paying patient.

"That should be here any moment. Bernice may not be the most intelligent girl, but she's quite prompt."

"I'm sure." He shifts uncomfortably in his wheelchair, trying to adjust his motionless legs on the footrests. "Look, Dr. Strange-"

"Please, call me Stephen."

"Stephen." He nods. "Much as I enjoy your offers of hospitality, I believe you called me in here for a specific reason? My usual appointments are on Saturdays; today is a Thursday, and I do have a school to run."

Strange's expression changes from one of contrived geniality to a serious frown. The neurosurgeon steeples his long, elegant fingers- pianist's fingers, Charles thinks- and levels his gaze. "Yes, I'm afraid you're right. We've been running some tests, as you know, to see just how extensive the damage to your spinal cord was. You've been very lucky in that the injury mostly affected your lumbar nerves and not your sacral nerves, but since the initial wound and your less-than-delicate handling after the incident that caused it were rather traumatic, we've been able to conclude that there is no chance of a full recovery, and only an extremely slight chance of partial recovery even after rehabilitation and physical therapy." He shoots Charles a sympathetic look. "We're very sorry for your loss."

"I understand." It's not what he wanted to hear- far from it, obviously- but Charles had resigned himself to his fate long before Dr. Strange's office called him in for today's meeting. He peers over his shoulder as the secretary enters with two cups of Earl Gray rattling on their saucers. **Please don't spill please don't spill or Dr. Strange will make me work late again, **she thinks as the milky liquid sloshes over the sides of the porcelain mugs. **Damn!**

Charles smiles at her, taking the dish from her quaking hand. "Thank you, love, I really appreciate it." It's far too sweet and she's used half and half instead of milk, but she clearly needs a kind word. Charles sips and feels annoyance radiate off of Dr. Strange, who flashes a toothy smile and hurries Bernice out of the room. He runs a hand through his heavily greased hair and shakes his head despairingly at his patient.

"Women. What can you do about them?" He opens one of his dark walnut cabinets and produces a bottle of scotch. "Care for a little pick-me-up in your tea?"

Charles hasn't drunk since before that day on the beach three months ago; hasn't drunk since that last shared whiskey with Erik on the night before their lives all went to Hell. He hasn't drunk because he knows that if he pours from the collection in his study he'll be able to feel the psychic residue left behind, the phantom imprint of Erik's lips on the bottle's rim. He knows that if starts to drink he won't be able to stop, and so he hasn't let himself, though the temptation is unbelievably strong.

Strange is raising his eyebrows bit by bit and Charles realizes that he's been silent for far too long. He clears his throat, embarrassed, and shakes his head. "Uh, no, no thank you. I'm fine with this."

The combination of Strange's pity and the overly-sweet tea make Charles want to gag, but he forces himself to smile politely as the doctor pours himself a glass of amber liquid and downs it far to fast for this hour of the morning. Strange is not a nice man, Charles knows, but he's a damn fine surgeon and he's managed to save a good chunk of Charles' spine. It's not his fault he's the bearer of bad news. It makes Charles feel oddly good about himself that the reason he dislikes Strange is because of the overheard thoughts of arrogance and selfishness and not out of some deluded invocation of the blame game.

Charles finishes his tea and sets the saucer down on the doctor's desk, the thin china rattling. "Well, thank you very much, Dr. Strange. I'm glad you're keeping me so up to date on my condition."

"Of course." Strange grins. "Have a lovely day, Professor Xavier. Here, let me get the door-"

"That's quite alright, I can manage on my own." Charles wheels himself out, glad to be free of the suffocating mind of Stephen Strange. The last he hears of the doctor is a stray thought, more like a whisper in the long hallway to the elevator.

**God, I hope I'm never a cripple like that.**

Charles presses the down button and allows himself a single cruel thought.

**I hope you are. Maybe it would teach you a little humility, Dr. Strange.**


	8. Horny

#8: Horny

Rating: R

Notes: Amarentha- To answer your question, the themes actually come from a table challenge I got off of LiveJournal. It was a list of twenty, and I try to write one per day.

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><p>"Remind me again why we're here?"<p>

"Because Cerebro found a mutant in this exact longitude and latitude almost every night of the week, Erik." Charles huffs and takes a sip of his gin and tonic. Erik frowns, his arms crossed over his chest.

"That was a rhetorical question."

The nightclub is loud and dark and the music is the sort of stuff that Erik hates. He's got a headache something awful and his skin is crawling at the stifling crush of bodies and noise. Charles, on the other hand, seems completely in his element, smiling and winking with everyone who walks by. He blends in perfectly, just another face in the crowd. His ease makes Erik feel even worse; like the outsider that he knows he is.

And if Charles looks sort of appealing, his hair flopping into his face and his glossy red lips quirked up in a smile, well, that has nothing to do with why Erik is so anxious. Visions of the previous night, Charles spread out sweaty and begging underneath him, definitely aren't running through his head whenever he looks him. And he certainly isn't jealous.

"If we don't find her soon can we leave?" Charles blinks up at him in confusion.

"What's wrong? You don't like it here?"

Erik opens his mouth to reply but the words don't make it out before the blonde sidles up to the bar. She's obviously dying her hair, her skirt is ridiculously short, and her go-go boots scream "hooker" in bright red letters. Somehow, instinctively, Erik knows that she's the one they're here for. He groans internally.

Charles flashes her a grin and puts in an order for a Cosmo before she can open her mouth. "Wow!" She squeaks breathlessly, her voice high and grating. "How'd you do that?"

"I'm a mind reader." Charles turns the charm up to eleven and Erik rolls his eyes. **Seriously, Charles?**

**What? Girls like this. I have to win her trust. **He answers, not turning away from the girl, his lips unmoving. "So, what do they call you?"

She titters. "Can't you just read my mind and find out?"

"Hmm…" Fingers pressed to the side of his head exaggeratedly, Charles squints and adopts a thinking position. "Is it… Sandra?"

"Oh my GAWD! That's right!" Erik takes a gulp of his beer and if the metal light fixtures rattle a bit, who's going to notice?

"You're so cool." She purrs, pressing herself against the bar counter so that her breasts push out over the top of her dress. "What's your name?"

"Charles Xavier. Actually-" he gestures over his shoulder at Erik, who is trying his hardest not to make everyone in the bar's fillings vibrate, "My friend and I have been looking for you."

She glances at Erik, giving a short wave. "Oh. Hi." He nods sullenly. "What's up, boys?"

"Have you ever noticed that you're different from other people, Sandra?"

The dumb, bright smile drops off her face instantly and her expression changes completely. She switches from a vapid, bubbly young woman to a serious, closed-off professional. Charles smiles like he knew that it was a façade the whole time (which he probably did).

"Are you from the government?" She asks, her voice lowered. Charles shrugs.

"Sort of, but we don't mean you any harm. We're recruiting people with special abilities-"

"Mutants." She completes his sentence and catches a glimpse of Erik's surprised expression. "My dad's a geneticist, I know all about what I am."

"Then you know how important it is for us to stick together." It's the first time Erik has spoken to her, and he feels much more comfortable now that she's switched personalities.

"Look, I'm sure what you're getting together is great and all, but I'm not a team player. That's not really my bag." She gives a sympathetic frown. "Sorry. Anyway, I don't think what I can do is very useful except for personal gain."

Charles leans forward. "What exactly can you do?"

She swirls her drink around the glass and takes a sip. "I can sense other people's emotions and cause them to emit pheromones. For example, I can tell that guy over there is depressed," she points to a man at the end of the bar, "And that your friend here is-" She breaks off, a shocked expression running over her features for a second before being replaced with a smirk. "Well then."

"What?" Charles turns to look at Erik. "What is it?"

Sandra giggles. "I'm gonna leave you guys, now. Have a good night!" She titters as she walks away. "Oh, and I left you a gift!"

Charles frowns at her retreating form. "Damn it. What was all that about? What does she mean, a gift-?" He gasps suddenly, lunging forward. Erik reaches out to grab him, trying to stop him from falling off his stool.

"Charles! Are you alright?"

Charles looks up at Erik, his pupils blown dark and his eyes wide. "We need to get back to the hotel room. Right now."

Erik is panicking as he helps his friend to his feet. "Why? Have you been poisoned?"

Charles shakes his head, twitches, and then shoves Erik up against one of the club's dark walls, grabbing his tie and slamming their mouths together in a bruising kiss. Erik groans as Charles grinds against him, his arousal hard and apparent through his slacks.

"She exaggerated my pheromones." Charles gasps into Erik's mouth, working his partner's belt undone with fumbling fingers. "That bitch."

Erik grins and weaves his fingers through Charles' hair. "Where is she? I have to thank her."


	9. Blah

#9: Blah

Rating: PG

Notes: This is a short one because I know exactly how Charles feels in this chapter right now :P Hopefully that'll lend some realism to his plight.

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><p>"Are you feeling any better?"<p>

Charles shook his head, pulling the heavy woolen blanket tighter around his shoulder. Erik settled next to him on the bed, levitating the metal tray with the remnants of Charles' breakfast to the floor. The mug of chamomile tea had only been sipped from, and the plate of dry toast was virtually untouched. Charles whimpered and leaned against Erik, burying his face in the other man's sweater.

"I want to die."

"Don't say that." Erik scolded, stroking Charles' hair soothingly. "It's just a twenty-four hour bug. You saw how fast the others got over it, you'll be fine by tomorrow."

"Yes, but they're young!" Charles groaned. "They have little baby immune systems! I'm old!"

"You're thirty. And I'd hardly call them babies; Raven is only a few years younger than you and she's better already."

"I think I've thrown up everything I ate in the past forty-eight hours." Squinting up with a frown, Charles prodded Erik's chest with a finger. "How did you manage to avoid getting sick?"

Erik shrugged. "Just good luck, I suppose. Though I'll probably catch it from hanging around you so much."

"Sorry." Charles ducked his head down. "You should count yourself lucky- I could be delirious and projecting thoughts all over the place."

"Well, you're already projectile vomiting all over the place."

"Erik, that's disgusting." He winced. "And not the best thing to say to a man with a tender stomach."

Erik wrapped an arm around him, hugging him tightly and kissing the top of his head. It was odd to see such a domestic act from a man whose usual idea of relaxation seemed to involve plotting the deaths of Nazis. "You'll get better. Here, do you want anything?"

Charles shook his head. "No, I'm alright. Just-" He looked up at Erik pleadingly. "Stay here, okay?"

"Of course, Charles. I'm not going anywhere."


	10. Unsure

#10: Unsure

Rating: PG-13

Notes: First person POV again, but with Erik this time. ANGST AHOY.

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><p>I have not been whole for a very long time. I have had parts of my soul, of my self slowly removed. I am an empty vessel. I am a man with only the last vestiges left of what was once a real person.<p>

I have read the Bible. I was religious, once upon a time- and then, even after I realized that God had forsaken me and my people, I still read verses. It was one of the only books Shaw allowed me. I have read the Old Testament. I have read the New Testament, though it is not a part of what I once believed.

I had hope, once. I had dreams and belief in others. I had trust and love.

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, thought as a child, reasoned as a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things.

I know now that I am the only person I can trust. I do not need hope. I do not need love. They are parts of me that were taken long ago, and it was foolish of me to try to find them again.

A starving man can eat and feel full for a time, but eventually he will be sick. His stomach has been changed, and food no longer carries any sustenance. I learned that in the camps, and I have learned it again here. I should have known that the emptiness inside me could never be filled.

Still. I doubt.

_Charles-_

_Did I do the right thing?_

I know that the answer is no.

_I am so sorry, Charles._


	11. Confident

#11: Confident

Rating: PG-13

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><p>Charles' hand on Erik's thigh burns like a brand through his dark slacks. He stares at Erik, his eyes heavy-lidded and sparkling.<p>

"We'll leave the plane ticket in your bag when we leave." He says, not looking at Angel. She's landed on the ground, carefully melding her wings back against her shoulder and doing up her bra. She raises an eyebrow.

"Thanks. Can I help you boys out with anything?"

Erik opens his mouth to speak but Charles beats him to it, grinning. "No thank you, Miss Salvador. We can take care of each other."

She winks, and Erik drunkenly wonders why all the female mutants they encounter along this trip seem to pick up on their relationship. Charles trails fingers along his inseam as she walks back into the club. They can hear the thrum of music through the walls of their private room, the soft murmur of activity around them. Erik gulps down his glass of champagne and raises an eyebrow at his companion.

"You're awfully confident tonight."

"I'm drunk."

Erik takes in the flush of Charles' face, his slightly loosened tie. "Yes, you are." He says, and leans down to capture his lips in a kiss.


	12. Pensive

#12: Pensive

Rating: PG-13

Notes: I'm sorry I haven't posted in so long- I was traveling a lot, and then I was delirious with the flu for a few days, and then I couldn't get internet access. So I've been writing these, but I haven't been able to post them, and some of the ones I wrote when I was sick ended up being completely incomprehensible. I'm trying to catch up, but I'm very very sorry to everybody who wanted nice normal updates.

This one is kind of weird- it was inspired by a dream I had where one of the soldiers who liberated the camps and met Erik looked a lot like Charles, and that was why Erik gravitated towards Charles when they met and trusted him so quickly. So this works on that logic, confusing as it is.

Also, in response to an anonymous comment on Chapter 10: I'm aware that Erik is Jewish, and as such would read the talmud or the torah and not the Bible, but I don't think Shaw would have been considerate enough to take his religious preference into account- and as the Bible is sort of the default reading choice in prison-like situations, and Erik is the sort of person who would probably read as much as possible, I would assume Erik would have read it at some point.

Okay, crazy notes over. On to the actual writing.

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><p>"Do you have an older brother?" Erik asks one night, his leg thrown over Charles' thigh in the aftermath of their lovemaking.<p>

He's been expecting the question, and as it's one he doesn't really want to answer instead Charles smiles. "Why?" He asks jokingly. "Do you want to set someone up for a date?"

"No, I was just wondering." They untangle slowly, skin sliding against skin sliding against sweat-drenched sheets. Erik stretches across Charles' prone body to grab his cigarettes, lighting one as he sits propped up by the pillows and ignoring the telepath's protestations.

Charles curls up against his side and lies there silently for a moment as Erik smokes.

"I don't have any siblings. Not blood ones, anyway." He trails his fingers over Erik's ribs. "I have a step-brother who's a few years older than me- that's Cain- and I've got Raven." His expression sours. "Cain and I don't exactly get along."

Erik nods, remembering the accidentally shared glimpses of a nine year-old Charles examining bruises in a full-length mirror.

Glancing up, Charles knows that Erik doesn't want him to ask the question he has in mind, but he does anyway. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

Charles hides his almost imperceptible wince when Erik stiffens beside him defensively. "Don't be evasive. Do you have brothers or sisters? Or did you have…?"

"No. I'm an only child. And anyway, you shouldn't need to ask."

"I know, I just…" Charles searches for the right words to express himself, twisting his mouth and furrowing his brows. "I like to hear you talk about yourself. About your life. On your terms, not mine."

Erik stubs his cigarette out in the metal ashtray on the bedside table, nestled in between the clock and a loose chess piece. Charles makes a mental note to put it back with the rest of the set in the morning. "But you don't need to."

Charles shakes his head. "No. I don't. But I want to." Reaching up, he strokes a hand through Erik's hair and kisses him gently. "I'm going to pass out in a second and it's going to be all your fault. Turn off the lamp?"

Under the soft warm light of the bedroom, Charles looks sleepy and sweet and safe and well-shagged, but for a split second all Erik sees is a tired, horrified young soldier, looking in at him from the opposite side of a barbed wire fence. Pine trees in the background. An ash gray sky. Pain and the stench of death, and the first flickering of hope.

"Of course." Erik says, and resolves to tell Charles about the British soldier that had first spoken English to him some other time. Of course Charles already knows about the man, and the strange resemblance they share, but it's a matter for another day. For now they're happy just to sleep at each other's sides, and to have each other's trust.


	13. Stress

#13: Stress

Rating: PG

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><p>Erik squeezes the bridge of his nose tightly between his thumb and forefinger. He has been bent over the hotel room desk, examining the government document on the mutant they've come to find and re-reading the same sentence for the past twenty minutes. He's got the start of a proper headache coming on, the stresses of traveling and trying to recruit people beginning to catch up to him.<p>

Charles seems fine. He's off in another part of town, at some bar or nightclub or tavern or pub (they all started to blend together after a while), and he was perfectly fine with Erik's decision to stay at the hotel while he went out to look for their newest recruit.

Erik wonders for a second why Charles is so good at fending off stress when he himself is so terrible at it. Maybe it's because Charles doesn't ever seem to get upset. Is he even capable of it? If he yelled, would reality implode?

**Hardly, my friend.** Charles chuckles in his head. **I'm just good at keeping myself calm.**

**How are things going?** Erik thinks, wincing in pain as the man across the hall slams his door.

Charles makes a noise somewhere between apathy and annoyance. **I found him. He wasn't interested. I'm going to head back to the hotel soon, I think.**

**That sounds fine.** Lying down on the bed, Erik drapes his dark jacket over his face and tries to block out the glow of the streetlights outside. He can feel Charles' frown through their mental connection.

**Erik? Are you all right?**

**I just have a headache, Charles. Don't worry about it.**

There's a pause, a moment of silence, and then Erik gasps as he feels fingers wind through his hair, strong and warm and tender as they massage his scalp.

**What are you doing?**

**I'm sending you a sense memory. Something to make you feel better. **Charles' voice is soothing. **Is it okay?**

Erik can feel the stress already leaving him as the imaginary hands comb through his hair. **Yes. Yes, it's perfect, thank you.**


	14. Calm

#14: Calm

Rating: PG-13

Notes: Teenage boy antics in this one. Oh those kooky mutants!

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><p>"Oh, my God, Erik is gonna <em>kill<em> you!"

Sean paled. "It was an accident!" He fumbled with the shattered vase, hands and knees on the carpet and his face almost as red as his hair. "I didn't mean to break it!"

"Maybe we can arrange it so that he thinks he did it." Alex's eyes darted from side to side like they did when he was playing pinball, alternating between the window and the door. "I mean, he's always smashing stuff around in his sleep, maybe we can hide it until tonight and then stick it by the bed so he sees it when he wakes up."

Sean looked up at him, impressed. "Wow, you really were a criminal."

"Guys," Hank coughed nervously, "We really need to do something. I think they're back from the store."

"Shit!" Alex dropped to the floor to help Sean, gathering up the pieces of pottery into his t-shirt. "We have to get rid of this somehow until we can figure out what to do."

"Your plan wasn't half bad, actually." Hank rubbed his chin. "We could probably get away with that."

"Wow. Seriously?"

"Yeah, it's a good plan. I know for a fact Erik's a heavy sleeper; he mentioned it once when he was talking to Raven and I overheard. We should try it tonight."

Alex blinked. "I'm just amazed you'd consider something so… rule break-ey."

"I just don't want to die."

"Good reasoning." Alex and Sean clambered up from the floor, the broken shards of the vase cradled in their arms. "Now let's get out of here."

* * *

><p>"Charles, have you seen that Ming vase in my room?"<p>

Charles glanced up from his book. Erik stood in the doorway of the study, arms crossed over his chest and brow furrowed. "No, sorry. Maybe it got moved during cleaning?"

"Maybe." Erik sat down across from him, settling into the armchair comfortably. Charles smiled at how familiar the gesture seemed- at how Erik seemed to fit so perfectly into the study, into the house. "Are you going to bed soon?"

A spark flickered through Charles eyes at the thought Erik sent his way. "If you keep that up, definitely. Your room or mine?"

* * *

><p>"Sean, are those bunny slippers?" Alex whispered.<p>

It was dark in the hallway outside Erik's bedroom, but everyone could still tell that Sean was blushing. "They were a present from my mom."

"Whatever. Alex, you take the left flank. Sean, you take the right." Hank gestured like a football coach, his large hands moving wildly. "I'll carry up the rear. That way Alex can make sure Erik doesn't wake up while Sean plants the vase on the floor. I'll keep watch for anyone who might come down the hallway."

Sean and Alex glanced at their companion. "Wow, you're getting really into this."

Hank grinned lopsidedly. "I like planning things."

They crept into the room as quietly as they could. The hinges squeaked when Sean pushed them too hard, the floorboards creaked under the weight of Hank's feet, and too much light slipped in, illuminating the bed like a spotlight. The three boys froze as there was a rustle of sheets, but Erik had only pulled more of the comforter over to his side of the bed, cocooning himself in orange cotton.

Sean knelt by the windowsill, where the vase had been before, and began to artfully arrange the shards of china on the floor. Hank had one hand on the doorframe, playing sentry and gazing out into the long darkened hallway like a bespectacled hawk.

Alex stood over the bed, examining Erik. "This is crazy. When he's sleeping, he almost looks… calm. You could swear he was non-homicidal, he looks like a puppy."

Sean and Hank joined him, the vase placed on the floor. "Yeah." Sean stroked his chin contemplatively. "Dare I call him … snuggly?"

"No." Hank shook his head vehemently. "This is just too weird." He squinted at the bed, leaning forward. "Doesn't it look awfully lumpy in there to you?"

The lump on the bed rolled over suddenly and glared at them. Hank and Alex clapped hands over Sean's mouth simultaneously to stop him from screaming.

**I suggest that you boys leave, now. **The irritated voice of a very rumpled Professor Xavier growled in their heads. **Some of us are trying to sleep.**

"I am so, so sorry, Professor, we didn't mean to-"

**Hank.** Charles sighed, running a hand through his hair. **It's fine; we'll talk in the morning. Just… please go away? It's eleven thirty at night.**

They started backing out the door. "Right. Yes. Sorry…"

Erik sat up, muttering blearily. "Charles? What's going on?"

"You're dreaming, darling. Go back to sleep." Charles patted his arm gently as the students gaped. Erik nodded and fell back against the pillows, snoring softly.

Sean, Alex, and Hank ran out into the hallway and didn't stop until they got back to the dormitory wing. They leaned against the walls, panting.

"We never speak of this again." Alex commanded. "Seriously, never."

Sean forced his face into a mask of seriousness, making his voice deeper. "These three young men have just returned from… the Twilight Zone."

"Thank you, Rod Serling." Hank wiped a hand across his brow. "I'm with Alex. That was just too weird for words."

"I feel like I walked in on my parents."

"It could have been worse. They could have actually been having sex."

Sean paled. "Can guys do that?"

Alex draped an arm over his shoulders, steering him towards the room. "Oh, buddy. Let me tell you allllll about prison…"

Hank raised an eyebrow.


	15. Cold

#15: Cold

Rating: R, for violence, child abuse, and disturbing situations.

Notes: Oh my God, I don't know why I keep making Erik such a woobie. I need to have him go kill something or jump out of a plane without a parachute or just be generally badass next chapter, 'cause I keep writing him into hurt/comfort scenarios. Bad Nyssa. No biscuit.

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><p>It's so cold, in the camp. It's nearing winter, and Erik can see his breath crystallize in front of his face when he breathes. There's nothing keeping any of them warm- not even the guards and <em>Herr Doktor<em>, since the heating went out. Schmidt sits across from Erik, bundled up in woolen sweaters and scarves, scribbling in his notebook with a gold fountain pen clutched in his mittens as Erik tries, shivering, to move an iron screw across the table. It trembles, rattling against the wood of the desk, but doesn't shift. Erik thinks that if he has to keep this up for any longer his fingers are going to fall off, clutched under his armpits in a futile attempt to keep warm. He blinks, and his eyelashes are frozen together. The screw rolls to the floor and something dark and dangerous flashes in Schmidt's eyes before he grins, teeth shining, and tells Erik to try again. The threat of having his meager meals withheld doesn't need to be spoken; it hovers between them, hanging over Erik's head like Damocles' sword. He grits his chattering teeth and focuses, praying with all his heart that he'll do it, this time: that it will move, rise into the air like _Herr Doktor_ wants.

It doesn't budge. Schmidt tutts, giving Erik _that look_, and pulls out a case of long, thin cigarettes and a lighter. "Really, Erik, I was hoping that we wouldn't have to resort to this again." He holds the flickering tip to Erik's skin, shaking his head at the young boy's scream. Erik can smell his own flesh burning, can feel the searing pain against his collarbone. He sinks down into despair, the red haze of pain and fear and anger blanking out his vision. He doesn't even notice the wild motions of the screw, six feet in the air, jerking back and forth across Dr. Schmidt's office like a crazed fly.

Schmidt pulls back the cigarette, taking a long drag on it and blowing smoke out into the air as he laughs up at the antics of the screw. "See? You have that power, Erik. It's just a matter of motivation." He frowns sympathetically at the young boy crumpled in his chair, pale and gasping for breath, the scorched red half-moon on his neck starting to turn white at the edges. "It's a shame this is the only stimulant you seem to respond to. But," He grins, "Science marches on, eh? Good job, meine leibeling. You get to eat tonight."

There's a hand on Erik's shoulder, suddenly, a hand that doesn't belong in this memory. A boyish young man kneels down in front of him, cupping his tear-streaked face in fingerless woolen gloves and stroking fingers through his hair, exactly the way his mama used to when he was sick.

**Erik.** The man speaks without moving his lips, like the ventriloquist Erik had seen once at a birthday party, when he was very young. **Here, take my coat, you're freezing.**

Erik knows he should say thank you, that it's the polite thing to do, but he can't seem to stop his teeth chattering. The man drapes the coat over him like a blanket, tucking it in at his sides and standing very close. He's wearing only a thin sweater and trousers underneath.

"Aren't you cold?" Erik manages to grit out.

**You need it more than I do.**

"Who are you?"

The man smiles sadly. **Erik, you're sick. You have a fever. I need you to try to focus.**

"I-I can't." He's shaking again, uncontrollably. "I'm so cold, Charles." He starts, trying to remember where he learned the man's name.

**You're trapping yourself in a memory. This isn't happening. You're delirious. **Charles tries to help him to his feet, but he can't stand. Erik is weak and shivery, and when he looks up frost has formed on all the windows, blocking his view out. Charles gives up, finally, and scoops Erik up into his arms like a child- which he is; of course, he's fourteen years old, so why does he feel so much older…?

**I'm going to get you out of here.** Charles carries him towards the door like he weighs no more than a feather. **I'm going to help you.**

It's so, so cold. There's a snowstorm blowing, now, and Erik can't see a thing. He's gone blind in the blizzard, the ice and snow whiting the world out so that everything is blank. It's so, so cold.

**I know. Come on, now. **A firm hand squeezes his from somewhere he can't see. **Come back to me, Erik.**

He opens his eyes. "Charles?"

Relived blue eyes blink at him from inches away. "Erik." The telepath has one hand with the fingers pressed to his temple, and the other entwined with Erik's. The bed is soft and comfortable, and Erik is drenched with sweat. Sheets are tangled around his legs like he's been thrashing around, and the dresser is starting to sag because one of it's screws has been ripped out and lies on the carpet near a broken picture frame. "Thank God, I didn't know if that would work."

"I'm hot." Erik's voice sounds alien to his own ears, croaking and exhausted. He reaches for a glass of water ready on the nightstand as Charles pulls down the sheets and undoes the top button of his pajamas, pressing a soft kiss to the shiny pink half-moon of scar tissue that hides in the dip of his collarbone.

"Good."


	16. Excited

#16: Excited

Rating: PG

Warnings: Fluff. SO MUCH FLUFF. Also, I'm writing about Christmas in July.

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><p><strong>It's Christmas it's Christmas it's CHRISTMAS-!<strong>

Charles grins. He's getting better and better at learning how to block thoughts, but this early in the morning- a glance at the clock tells him that it's five AM- his control is fuzzy and loose, and he can hear every one of Raven's excited thoughts through the wall that separates their bedrooms. He pushes himself up on one elbow just as she bursts into through the door, eyes flickering between gold and blue with exhilaration as she launches herself onto the end of his bed, landing on the sheets with a soft thump.

"Charles, it's Christmas!" She grabs him by the front of his pinstriped, too-large pajamas and pulls him forward so that they're nose to nose. "You have to come downstairs right now, we have to see if Santa came!"

"Okay, okay!" Raven is a few years younger than him, but Charles knows that the anticipation he feels as she leads him down the carpeted hallway isn't all leaking off of her: It's him, too. They round the corner and there's a swell of joy as her hands fly to her mouth, muffling her squeal as she looks over the banister at the huge tree in the main hall. What had been a large, dull hunk of prickly green the previous night is bedecked in glowing yellow lights and silver and gold baubles. Tinsel hangs off the light fixtures, and there's a wreath of holly on the door of the parlor.

Charles and Raven rush down the stairs, taking them two at a time as they dash across the foyer. Charles is first to the door, his legs longer, and he tugs it open with a flourish. Raven lets out a scream of delight and runs forward, crashing to the floor in front of the fireplace. She sits there on her knees, staring open-mouthed at the piles of gaily wrapped presents that are stacked on the floor and the sofas and the armchairs. In her enthusiasm, she's changed back from the blonde haired, blue-eyed form that she had picked out from a newspaper and that she usually wears around to her blue-skinned self. Charles kneels beside her.

"Wow." Raven breathes, reaching out tentatively and poking a silver bow as if it will disintegrate at her touch. "This is the best, Charles. I've never seen so many presents before!" She smiles; one of the widest grins Charles has ever seen. "I guess I was good this year!"

"Of course you were good, Raven. You're really good, you're…" Charles scrunches up his nose, searching for the right words. "You're the goodest person I've ever met!"

She laughs, and it's loud and unrestrained and Charles can feel the servants pausing to listen in the kitchen from where they're preparing the Christmas goose; he can feel his mother beginning to wake in her room upstairs and her uncharacteristic flush of happiness as she sees the snow outside. He's grateful suddenly that Kurt has gone on a business trip to Geneva and taken Cain with him- his stepfather's presence would have ruined this day. With him gone, it's like living in a different house. Raven frowns, and he realizes that he's been accidentally projecting to her.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

"It's okay. I'm just happy right now." She grabs one of the boxes and shakes it (far too hard; something rattles and Charles winces). "Last year Santa didn't come at all. Daddy said it was because I was bad, but really I know it was because he had spent all the money on horses and drink again. That's what Mom said." Raven lurches forward suddenly, uncoordinatedly, and wraps her arms around Charles' neck in a crushing hug. "I'm so happy I live with you now, Charles."

Charles isn't good at talking- not yet, that will come later, when he's older- so he hugs Raven back and smiles into her dark red hair. "I'm happy you live with me, too."

He peels her arms off and reaches forward, grabbing a badly wrapped gift in polka dotted paper and handing it to her. "Merry Christmas, Raven."

Raven screams in glee at the doll Charles had saved up to get her, and he goes wide-eyed and breathless at the lizard she hands him in a cardboard box with holes poked in the top. They hug, and when Charles' mother comes downstairs in her dressing gown and smiles and pats Raven on her golden hair, Charles feels like for once he's part of a real family. They open presents, and eat the delicious dinner, and pull crackers with cook and the maids and the butler and sing carols together until it's far too late for the children to be up. Charles' mother hums softly to herself, curled up in the corner of the couch with a glass of sherry, and Charles and Raven lean against each other sleepily, basking in the warmth of the fire.

"Raven?" Charles asks. She stirs, blinking and groggy.

"Mmmhmm?"

"Promise me we'll always be together."

She snuggles closer to him, letting her head drop onto his shoulder. "Of course. You're my brother. We're gonna be together forever."

Charles smiles, and spends the rest of one of only three perfect days in his whole life falling asleep on the carpet next to his sister.


	17. Hungry

#17: Hungry

Rating: PG-13

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><p>There are parts of Erik that scare Charles. Every time they start to fall into patterns, to grow content, something will happen that reminds Charles of what his lover truly is: Fickle and dangerous.<p>

Erik has a predatory edge that never really goes away, no matter how sated he may seem. It's there in the sharp glint of his eyes when he talks about his past; in the too-wide angles of his smile and the low, dangerous softness of his voice when he feels threatened. Erik is more than capable of being happy, too- of being kind and supportive and full of love. Charles sees it when they're together, the happy Erik that first started to be shaped over those long months before the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Erik leaves Charles and returns to him many times over the years. Their first reunion, months after that life-changing day on the beach, was perfect. Erik had got down on his knees by Charles' wheelchair, begging forgiveness, and Charles had cried with him and welcomed him back with open arms. He left nearly a year later. The next year he came back for three months. The year after that he stayed for two. Three years after that he returned, seemingly for good, and he shared a bed with Charles for almost six years straight. After that, he has come back less and less, until it's rare for him and Charles to meet at all.

The older they get, the more startling the distinction between the two parts of Erik's personality become. At thirty he is filled with rage. At thirty-five he is equal parts anger and sadness. At forty he is love. At fifty he is pain. At sixty he is regret, and the knowledge of what he has lost haunts him every day.

Sometimes, when things get really bad, Charles will lock himself inside a memory. When the school has been attacked again, when the children have bee hurt or killed, when he has seen Erik across the battlefield and been unable to hear his thoughts or feel his presence, at night he will create for himself a dream world. He creates worlds where Erik never left the first time, on the beach. There are worlds where they grow old together, where they are accepted and people don't want their students dead. He lies in his bed, old and tired and alone, and dreams of better days, hungry for what they could have had.


	18. Hot

#18: Hot

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Blow jobs.

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><p>Charles isn't used to the heat of the New York summer- he hasn't been back in Westchester since he left for Oxford four years ago. His wardrobe is ill-suited for the ninety-degree weather and the crushing humidity, and he's spent most of his time with his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows and his top buttons undone, starched collar wilting in the swelter of the hot summer days.<p>

It's very hard for Erik not to stare.

A bead of sweat trickles down Charles' throat as he fans himself with a piece of CIA paperwork, watching as Sean, Alex, and a reluctant Hank play football on the lawn. They're sitting on the patio, sipping at lemonade and trying to supervise the students and prevent the injuries that always seem to occur when they engage in physical activity of any kind (There was a particularly bloody capture-the-flag incident a few days ago that doesn't bear thinking about). But the boys seem to be playing civilly, for once, and as such Erik's attention has wandered from the vivid green of the grass and the sun beating down on them all to the loose strands of hair curling adorably (Did he just think the word adorable? Non, ce n'est pas possible) over Charles' forehead.

Erik runs over his multiplication tables in his mind. He conjugates "to be" in French. Je suis, tu et, il es, elle es…

The telepath turns to smile at him, and Erik curses him in a thousand languages, some that he's made up specially for the occasion. "You do know that the harder you try not to think about it, the more obvious it is. Correct?"

"Don't gloat."

"I'm not gloating. I think it's sweet." Charles laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners at Erik's sudden burst of thought. "Well, that's not exactly sweet, maybe, but I certainly approve." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Also, I think it would be a good idea for me to join you in that cold shower you're so fixated on now. Don't want me risking heatstroke in these woolen trousers, do we?"

Erik can't stop himself from grinning. "We should probably get all your clothes off as soon as possible, actually. To be safe."

Charles practically drags him inside the house. "I appreciate this new interest you've taken in my health." He says, pulling off his shirt as they head down the hallway. He pauses to lean forward, catching Erik's lips in a kiss and helping him peel his vest over his head. They taste like lemonade, and Charles' mouth is sticky at the corners.

They barely manage to get out of their pants before they stumble under the cold spray of the shower. The water runs in cool rivulets down their skin as hands slide slickly over bodies. Charles gasps, head thrown back against the tiled wall as Erik works him with a warm, wet palm.

"Have you cooled down yet?" Erik murmurs, head bent and nose brushing against Charles' chest. The telepath hums, escalating into a whine as Erik increases the pace of his hand.

**No. Erik, more…**

Erik loves him like this- when his tongue can't form words and his mind has to do the talking for him. Charles looks beautiful, wet and shining and totally undone, his sinfully red lips parted and his face streaked with droplets of water. Erik drops to his knees, twisting the shower knob as he goes.

Charles' hips stutter forward, partly at the sudden decrease in temperature and partly because of the sensation of Erik's lips wrapped around his cock. His arms shoot out, one pressed shakily against the wall to support himself and the other resting on Erik's head. His hair is too short to really tangle his fingers in, but he pats the soaked strands clumsily as Erik hollows his cheeks, making Charles' knees quake.

**Erik, God, so good, **Charles sobs in his mind, the stark contrast between the heat of Erik's mouth and the freezing water making his head spin. **Please, so good, I need you-**

Erik releases the head of Charles' cock with a wet pop and shoots him an incredulous look. "Really, Charles, it's just a blowjob."

"It's not!" He babbles frantically, desperate to have Erik's mouth sucking on him again. "Here, don't stop, I'll loop you in so you can feel it, too!"

Erik rolls his eyes, but goes back to what he was doing. Charles whimpers, gathers his concentration, and sends Erik exactly what he's feeling: he lets Erik see himself through Charles' eyes.

"Mein gott!" Erik's mouth falls open and he squeezes Charles' thighs. "What the Hell, Charles?"

"Could you feel it?"

He nods wordlessly, then grins like a cat that got the canary (And with just as many teeth). "I'm good at this."

"Mmm. Yes. Very." Charles nods indulgently and gently guides Erik's head back to his cock. "Please?"

He doesn't have to ask again. Steam begins to fog up the small window near the top of the shower, and Raven, doctoring a newly-sustained, football-related cut on Hank's lip, peers at it in confusion as the students sit around on the patio, drinking the neglected lemonade.

Then a hand smacks against the glass, sliding down slowly and leaving a smudge of dark where the condensation has been wiped away by the palm. Raven giggles, Hank coughs, and Sean turns to Alex, pale and panicky.

"Oh my God! Did the Professor drop the soap?"


	19. Content

#19: Content

Rating: PG

Notes: Oh wow, this is the penultimate chapter. These went by a lot faster than I realized they would. Enjoy this second to last drabble!

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><p>Charles is beautiful. There's no other way to put it. He's amazing, the sort of completely unique creature that only a series of extremely fortunate mutations could produce. Erik could describe him, but it wouldn't do him justice- could talk about the way his hair stick up in all directions when he gets up in the morning, could wax poetic about his lopsided smile and his ruby-red lips, could babble for hours about his wide blue eyes, but his words could never show just how much he loves him. There is so much about Charles that Erik never wants to get used to, things that he never wants to stop seeing through fresh eyes. He doesn't ever want to get used to his voice, to his mannerisms. He wants to spend every moment with Charles like it's their first.<p>

Here, like this, it doesn't matter what goes on outside. It doesn't matter that the humans hate them, that the CIA is using them, and that Shaw is constantly lurking in the shadows. For once, Erik doesn't worry about the monsters that he knows are out there in the world, waiting to strike. He doesn't think about death or pain or loss. He doesn't think about his mother, or the dying screams of men, or the numbers of his arm. He doesn't think about anything at all.

Erik wants to die like this. Not in the familiar way that he used to think of suicide, of ending everything before it can get worse. He wants to lie down beside Charles and go to sleep, to hold him close and shut his eyes and just drift off. He is happy, now, and he knows that it will not last, but he thinks that if he could just die like this he would be content. To die held in Charles' arms, to die by his side, would be as close to perfection as Erik would ever come.

Erik lies in Charles' tight, slumbering embrace and wishes that the night would never end.


	20. Alone

#20: Author's Choice- Alone

Rating: PG

Notes: This is the last chapter! It's been fun, guys. Lots of work, but fun. I hope you all enjoyed these and had a good time reading them. Thank you all very much for all your reviews, faves, and for just sticking around and putting up with me through all the stupid delays and waiting. You're the best.

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><p>Erik is surprised. It doesn't happen often.<p>

"You said yourself we were the better men, Erik. Now is the time to prove it!"

He blinks, his hold on the missiles faltering and detonating a few harmlessly above the water. The sand is hot beneath their feet, and the wind carries the smell of burning plastic and shredded metal. Erik stares at the people surrounding him. He runs through the familiar faces, cataloging the last time he had seen each of them: Hank, be-suited and behind a podium, his blue fur streaked with gray; Sean, driving away from the Institute, his mouth permanently set in a hard line and his young daughter in the backseat, her eyes gazing longingly at the school; Alex, blood trickling from his mouth, crushed under a mess of fallen concrete and brick; Raven, cold and shivering and alone as he left her behind, unforgivably human.

Charles, old and bald and curled inside himself in an all-plastic chair, projecting his last moments of fear to the world. That was the last memory Erik had of him. Now he stands beside him, blue eyes wide, fingers trembling as he holds them up to his temple in that gesture Erik has seen so many times. He's young, standing, and the sun is burning their shoulders even through the suits Hank has designed.

"I remember this."

Charles stumbles over what he's saying, furrowing his brow. "What?"

"I remember this." Erik's gaze darts all around, from the ships on the horizon to the missiles in the air, from the students to the wreckage of Shaw's submarine. "This was the day."

Charles throws him a desperate look. "Erik, I don't understand. Just stop this madness, please." He takes a tentative step forward. "There are thousands of men on those ships, Erik, good, honest men. They're just-"

Erik holds up his free hand, the one that isn't holding up the missiles, cutting off Charles mid-sentence. "No, Charles, for once in your life, shut up for one second."

Charles gapes like a fish on a dock. Erik is struggling, trying hard to piece together what's going on and at the same time support the giant, deadly hunks of metal that he's currently levitating. He bites his lip.

They were old. They were old, and apart, and people died. So many people died. This has happened before, Erik knows, he has the memories to prove it. He knows what happens from here. He knows where they go.

He can feel the anger that's still inside him whispering in his ear to release the missiles, to send them into the American and Russian ships and blow them all to Hell. But he's seen how this day ends. He's seen Charles, in pain that he himself had caused. He's seen the world fall into chaos because of this one moment in time.

Erik thinks of the future. He remembers years spent trying to reconcile the two halves of himself, the half wanting revenge on humanity and the half wanting to be a part of Charles' life. He remembers leaving Charles, coming back to Charles, leaving him again. He remembers the eyes of his followers, his mutant brotherhood, their fear and their pride. He remembers death, and pain, and loneliness. He remembers his children, and suddenly he knows.

"Wanda." He whispers under his breath, tears pricking at the edges of his vision. She had changed the world again. His little girl, his little scarlet witch. Her powers were so much stronger than he could ever have imagined they would be: the ability to distort reality. To change the past, the present, the future. Such sacrifice. Such bravery. She had given herself up, given up their whole sad world, in hopes of righting what once went wrong. "I'm so proud of you."

"Erik?" Charles is standing by his side, having moved closer as Erik was absorbed by thought. "Erik, please. You don't have to be alone."

Erik looks at Charles, at the man he has spent his whole life either loving or hating; often at the same time. He looks into his blue eyes and sees a second chance.

The missiles detonate harmlessly and fall into the water as Erik takes Charles' hand, and they walk together into the brave new world that has been made.


End file.
